


Hostage

by saikowrites



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, M/M, Making Out, Persona 5: The Royal, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Songfic, Third Semester (Persona 5), billie eilish is peak shuake singer, getting emotional during a bj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saikowrites/pseuds/saikowrites
Summary: “Well, you’ve got your criminal record fixed, haven’t you?”“My criminal record isn’t something I would trade reality for.”The clink of cups from the café climbs even up there. Akechi smiles weakly.“And what is it, then?”Akira’s lips tense in a flat line.We both know the answer to that by now, don’t we?It's always easier to let go of a fake dream when it's not your own.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't have enough free time to write a proper 2/2 fic so have this piece I wrote back in August which is basically 2/2 but a month earlier!   
> (also this one I svery self indulgent and doesn't have a specific point behind a bit of character study if you squint)  
>   
> The fic is set right after Lavenza explains the workings behind Maruki's power to the group. It was just too interesting to explore what would happen if Akira connected the dots earlier.  
>   
> Also based on the song of the same name because Billie Eilish is LIFE and her songs make up half of my shauke playlist xoxo

* * *

_I don't know what feels true_  
_But this feels right, so stay a sec  
_ _Yeah, you feel right, so stay a sec_

* * *

Akira climbs Leblanc’s old stairs, steps creaking under their weight.

Akechi’s stare behind him is a sting into the skin between his shoulder blades, even if buried by layers of clothes. He swallows. Lavenza’s words still linger in his head, overlapping in a chaotic chatter – the actualization, the wishes, the takeover of the collective unconscious. _The dead coming back to life._

The dusty air of the attic itches in his nostrils – heavy of the familiar, stuffy smell – and gets stuck in the middle of his chest, all knotted up like a nasty noose.

He bites back a sigh and steps out of his boots, his toes curl against the cold planks of the floor. He puts the schoolbag down on the white table near the stairs and a light clink echoes from the metal rings securing the shoulder straps. He opens the zip. A beige jacket and a pair of black slacks stare back at him, both sprinkled with cat hair. _Great._

He scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry for that.”

Akechi shakes his head. “It was inevitable. Though, I’m still surprised you made it this far into the school year with a cat around.” The corners of his mouth bend down. “Not that anyone would ever punish you in this reality.”

Akira shrugs, his hands run in the pockets of his trousers. He steps aside and makes room for him to retrieve his clothes. _I should wait downstairs while he changes._ He inhales, but a lump forms in his throat.

“Akira,” Akechi spells and makes his point by settling straight in front of the stairs, his arms crossed. The red fabric of the sweatshirt stretches near the seam joining the arm pieces with the shoulders. “You’ve been with your head in the clouds since after the meeting. Spit it out. This is not the time for some self-indulgent overthinking.”

The hair at the base of his neck jolts up.

“I’m still framing what Lavenza told us.”

“I figured that much.”

Akira takes a step back. Akechi just stands there, eyebrows a bit closer above bloody, piercing irises, and shifts his weight from the right leg to the left. Shujin’s flashy tracksuit covers his body to the millimeter, with the pants ending just around his ankles instead of nearly touching the ground. The elastic band of the upper piece circles his hips, and the lettering ‘Kurusu, class 2-D,’ signed with his handwriting, shines on the nameplate on Akechi’s chest.

Akira’s stomach twists.

He turns to face the window – just a moment to catch his breath. He’ll count to three, compose himself, offer to talk in front of a nice cup of coffee, and make his way down to the shop. He only needs a little time.

 _One. Two. Three_ _—_

Wooden planks screech behind him.

“Something about her speech is bothering you,” Akechi insists. “Get yourself together and clear your mind. We only have a month.”

“Less than a month.” The words are out on their own.

“And you have a problem with that? You worked under far more stressful circumstances.”

Akira spins around with a retort on his tongue. Akechi is studying him with his chin pinched between uncharacteristically bare fingers and a deep stare, and it’s like those summer evenings spent playing billiards and wondering what the next move would have been.

_Does he want to know? Ok then._

He takes a step forward.

“On the night between December 31st and January 1st, I dreamed of the school nursery. But something felt off.” He torments strands of his fringe between his thumb and index. “I only knew I had to go home – but the more I walked through the school, the more I heard voices. They were my teammates’. They were mumbling something.”

The cut of Akechi’s eyes sharpens. “The wishes Maruki granted, I suppose.”

“Yes. I realized that through the dream, I somehow got to know what all of them talked about with him during the year.”

“And?”

Akira shudders but covers it with a shrug. His throat aches.

“And I thought everything made sense that way: Maruki started with us Thieves and then extended his influence on Mementos, and in this way, he gained access to the general wishes of the masses.” He taps his foot on the floor. “I guess this is how he learned about Morgana and his will to be human.”

Another step forth. Akechi’s body gives away a flinch. The boy forces his arms back beside him, fists clenched, and the rubber band closing the long sleeves stops a few centimeters above his wrists, leaving the skin exposed as if the fabric had been pulled back on purpose.

Akira’s hands slip out from the pockets. _Will he disappear if I get closer?_

His fingertips prickle, electricity coursing through him. _Will he storm out?_

A shiver runs down his spine, he wets his lips – it’s a bet. He holds the stare of bloody eyes and pinches the jacket collar with his left hand, grabbing the zip with his right.

“What are you doing?” Akechi whispers, a bit of a hiss.

_Just preventing you from storming out._

“Just taking back what’s mine.”

A chestnut eyebrow shoots up.

Akira takes a breath.

“When we confronted Maruki the first time, he said that this reality also involved the two of us. I shrugged that off because after all, we remembered everything, right?” He starts to pull down the zipper, the movement so slow in the heavy silence of the attic that a furious whistle rages in his ears. “But the second time, Maruki insisted that this reality is the best for everyone. That every problem is solved, and every wish gets fulfilled. Even the ones a person doesn’t acknowledge.”

“Well, you’ve got your criminal record fixed, haven’t you?”

“My criminal record isn’t something I would trade reality for.”

The clink of cups from the café climbs even up there. Akechi smiles weakly.

“And what is it, then?”

Akira’s lips tense in a flat line. _We both know the answer to that by now, don’t we?_

He opens the last portion of the track jacket with a swift stroke and reveals the plain white t-shirt with the round neck bordered in red underneath. He squeezes the two free bottom hems with both hands. Inhales. The faint note of citrus, the usual, is mixed up with gym clothes.

“One I would never think of. Something that only an insane amount of power such as Maruki’s actualization could realize.” He lets go of the sweatshirt, his hands hanging by his side _. Yeah, this is it._

He forces his gaze to meet Akechi. “Maybe my wish was like Haru’s one. Or Makoto. Or Futaba.”

Akechi nods with a thin smirk. “I should’ve expected no less from you.”

Akira grits his teeth. So, he knew. _Obviously._ And he hadn’t said a word. And it’s ridiculous that he’s even surprised. Sickening.

His head spins. His fingers move back up to Akechi’s shoulders, a little shaking, and slip under the jacket, they slide further down, taking the garment with them, and find warm skin to cling to. Memories of early autumn nights flood in with their bitter, regretful aftertaste. His mouth curves into a thin grimace.

“Just so we’re clear,” Akechi demands for his attention, “this doesn’t change anything. Maruki will be defeated and this reality will end. This was our deal.”

“I know,” he whispers, and accompanies the hoodie off Akechi’s body, lets it fall on the floor with a muffled tingle of the zipper against the wood. His nose itches. He holds his breath.

“Then at least try to be more convincing.”

“I know!”

It gets out as a cracked pitch.

Akechi stiffens, and his head gives away the smallest wince. Akira can’t help tightening his grip on the soft skin of his arms. His cheeks burn under the severe shape of two reddish eyes.

“Akira, you can’t let him use this against you.”

“A smart move, really,” he comments with a wry smile.

Akechi’s face turns cold.

“I’m more than a chip in a bargain.”

A punch right in the stomach would have hurt less. Akira releases his hold against him, who keeps his gaze sharp and crosses his arms. The scattered hair on his exposed skin, so light in color it appears as white, raises against the chilling air of the attic in slight goosebumps.

“Tell me,” Akechi orders, “what are your intentions?”

Akira bites his lower lip. _Just one moment._

He reaches for the hem of the t-shirt, tentative, and fiddles with the synthetic fabric as if only by the contact he could prove that Akechi is real and there – _at least for now_.

“It’s… not easy,” he mutters.

“It should be.”

“But if we end this reality, then you’ll—”

“So, what?” Akechi tenses, as if he’s ready to run away and vanish in the frozen mid-January afternoon without even retrieving his coat. “I’m fed up with being under someone else’s control.”

The pit of his stomach twitches.

“Okay,” he lets out. His sneaky fingers disappear beneath the t-shirt and lightly brush upwards against the skinny abdomen. He follows the hard shape of the lower portion of Akechi’s ribcage, which heaves in a slow rhythm with every breath.

“Okay,” he repeats. “I’m— you’re right.” He forces the words out of his throat. _I hate this._ “We’re stopping Maruki, as planned.”

His left hand settles on the slender line of Akechi’s waist. The right one indulges on his chest, and Akechi’s pulse gets mixed with Akira’s own under his fingertips.

“Good,” Akechi nods, the corner of his lips curled up, “that’s the answer I wanted to hear.”

“Yeah, I know.”

_The jerk._

Akira avoids his eyes and gets back to torture his own lip. His hands move further in and circle Akechi’s lower back, his thumb rubs against the bumps of his vertebra, up and down in light motions. He forces his breathings to match – in, out. In, out.

Cold fingers grab both sides of his face and force him to look up. Akechi’s features turn harsh again.

“I can’t stand that contrite look. I don’t want to be pitied, and more than anything I don’t want your pity.”

Akira opens his mouth. Akechi treats this like it’s easy, like Akira didn’t spend the night after the engine room tormenting himself with speculations and memories until Morgana hissed him to go to sleep, bared canines and claws and everything.

He seals his lips in a thin line and holds his breath as if any exhale will break him into tiny pieces. His eyes start to prickle, and he shuts them, too, and his shoulders slouch forward.

Akechi’s hands move from his jaw, leaving the exposed skin pulsing from the missing warmth; they grab the sticks of his glasses and remove them with a slow movement. Sweaty spots are left on his nose from the hard plastic bridge – sure enough, there are faint marks there as well.

“Akira,” Akechi says under his breath, voice firm.

Akira’s eyes crack open and meet Akechi’s face, the border of thick, black frames gone by the corner of his vision. Russet eyes stare back at him. He’s still holding his glasses.

Akira swallows, throat so dry it aches, threatening to spill everything out.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs. “Our deal.”

Akechi leans in, so close his breath is a hot puff against his nose and lips – it lacks the familiar scent of coffee Akira got so used to, but it smells so much like _him_.

“I’m fighting Maruki regardless. I’ll confront even you and your group if you’d ever think to stop me.”

Akira nods. He laces his fingers together against Akechi’s lower back and tightens his hold.

“Just one month, huh…” he thinks aloud.

_Don’t go._

“Just one month,” Akechi repeats, a whisper against his skin, with the right corner of his mouth curled up in the slightest.

Akira expects the world to start crumbling into pieces, the same way it shatters when they steal the treasure in a Palace. It’s stupid – Akechi would mock him to death had he voiced out such thoughts. It’s not like he can disappear _now_.

He presses onto those lips, so slow it’s embarrassing.

Akechi kisses back, and he tilts his head to the side and falls back into a known rhythm. Under the fresh scent of a citrus shower gel, a faint note of spices and stuffy clothes manages to make a thin smirk unfold on his face. The delicate sound of lips smacking, the quiet hums, the light tickle of loose strands from Akechi’s fringe brushing against his nostrils; Akira drinks them all in. Daring teeth catch his bottom lip and nibble the flesh with just a teasing pressure that draws out a quick gasp from him.

Akechi snickers and steps back to fold the glasses and tosses them into the schoolbag. With a knowing smile, he approaches Shujin’s black blazer and starts opening the red buttons, one after the other in practiced gestures.

Akira opens his mouth to protest. Akechi pushes him back toward the other end of the room – the wooden planks cry under their combined weight. Akechi’s tongue slips past his lips and Akira takes a deep breath through his nose, adrenaline rushing through his body. The world gets turned upside down.

He seconds the pressure of Akechi’s body and tries his best not to stumble. The jacket gets opened in a rustle and discarded on the floor without further thought, and the suspenders underneath are lifted from his shoulders with confidence. His calves hit the border of the futon laid on the plastic crates, and he puts his feet down and arches his back but manages to stand up.

“Hold on,” he exhales.

“What,” Akechi replies in a jagged breath, “you want to pretend you haven’t thought about this all this time? Like it’s the last?”

Akira stills. _Technically, it could be._ He holds his gaze.

“My clothes suit you.”

“Which is funny, because I remember the agreement was for _you_ to wear my clothes.”

“Would you like me that much with a regular shirt and a tie?”

Akechi blinks as if taken aback. “At least you’d be dressed properly, for once,” he coughs.

“Well,” Akira shrugs and flashes out his most Joker-ish smirk, “I guess a tie can also come quite… handful.”

“Making suggestions, are we?”

“I could always grab yours from the bag right now if you’re so eager.”

One of Akechi’s feet sneaks beside his. The boy makes up the biggest smile.

“Oh, no, I don’t think you’ll have to do that.”

The corners of his lips curl further up. The foot moves past his. Akira gasps.

“You asshole—”

With his foot, Akechi pulls his right ankle forward and makes him stumble down on the bed. Akira stretches his left arm backward and stops the fall, manages to somehow sit on the futon instead of completely fall on his back. Before him, Akechi looks at him with a slight grimace, and an eyebrow tilted up.

“My, my,” he places his knee on the mattress, right beside Akira’s thigh. “Moving your arm like that is the one thing you’re supposed _not_ to do when you fall, Akira.”

He kneels on Akira’s lap and grabs the back of his neck. Cold fingers slip under the hem of his white turtleneck and play with the fabric. Akira gasps for air, his shoulders tremble.

“You know,” Akechi whispers to his ear, his breath a hot, ticklish blow. “I’ve always liked both your winter uniform and your thief outfit.”

Akira swallows. “Yeah, the high neck is convenient,” he jokes. Silky hair caresses his cheek, full of his smell. _God._

Akechi’s fingers further lower the fabric and expose more of his skin, against which he lightly brushes his nose and lips.

“It is, indeed. No need to worry about nasty marks.”

He moves a bit up, right on the bone at the edge of his jaw.

“Although considering the buzz I heard about you both times I visited your school, I wonder what would happen if something remained visible, after all.” He bites down and pulls a little bit of flesh and skin. “Maybe we can find that out.”

He emphasizes the point by grinding down on Akira’s lap and – fuck. Akira lets out a whine. He needs to slow down. But the bastard grabs his hair and makes his head bend back, and Akira can’t help but close his eyes and leave more of his neck at Akechi’s mercy. Every kiss, every little bite following the shape of his jaw gets interrupted just before leaving a proof that won’t vanish in an hour or two.

Akira wishes for time to stop.

His free hand travels around Akechi’s waist on its own and settles on his lower back again. He presses down on warm skin, against the little mountains formed by his arched spine, and squeezes their bodies even tighter together – sweet moans. He tilts his chin and searches for his lips as if they’re the oxygen he breathes. His hand scales up Akechi’s back, drags the t-shirt with it, and uncovers more and more of him. Akechi breaks free from the kiss and, with a swift movement and a soft pop of his shoulders, he gets rid of it.

Everything stills – as though, in a prank, this distorted reality bent again to grant his prayer.

Akechi’s upper body stands out naked in the cold January light of the shabby attic, his chest rising and falling at quite the rhythm, his lips slightly parted and of a darker tone of pink, and his eyes wider, yet lacking the raw ferocity that possesses him in the Metaverse.

Akira swallows and steadies his breathing. _Please slow down._

He runs his hand up and down Akechi’s spine, draws him nearer, and nuzzles against his stomach. With eyes closed, he inhales the faint sweaty scent that his gym t-shirt left on him.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

“I’ve been dead for less than three weeks,” Akechi mocks him. “Don’t get all sentimental again.”

“Akechi—”

“You know,” he reflects, “I think we’re long past the point where surnames are needed.” He rests a hand on his shoulder. Akira jolts a little at the touch of cold skin through the light fabric. “You may use my first name.”

“Goro.”

He hums – the name rolls nicely on his tongue.

Akira nibbles at the skinny line of his side, but Goro pushes him away and kisses him again, presses more of his weight onto him, and Akira’s other arm is forced to join the first one backward not to fall. Icy fingers slip into the space between the turtleneck and the pants pushing the shirt as up his body as possible and tap a little below his shoulder blades to demand that he moves. Akira squeezes the duvet in his fists. If he moves, Goro will take advantage of it and push further.

_Unless…_

Akira sits straighter. He removes his hands from the mattress. Goro smiles and keeps his fixed on his shoulder. Akira grabs Goro by the arm and grins wider – and yanks.

With a surprised gasp, Goro loses balance and Akira makes sure to complement the movement and drags him down on the futon in a hug. He struggles to free himself, followed by a sound protest from the crates supporting them, but Akira rolls on top of him and pins him on the spot. Goro glares at him.

“You little piece of shit.”

“Hey, we’re even now,” Akira adjusts to give him a little more space. Goro tries to hit him with a knee and Akira dodges with a tinkle of his suspenders, fallen loose by his sides, and sits on his stomach out of spite, drawing out a satisfying wince. He removes the turtleneck, the fabric of the neckpiece brushes against his hair and produces a series of soft cracks. Under him, Goro’s eyes stay on his body, expecting. Laid on a bed, every shape of his bones gets sharper, especially the ones drawing the line of his pelvis that disappear under the waistband of the red tracksuit pants.

Chills shake his bared skin. The sight is worth a picture.

“Do you intend to just keep staring at me?”

“Maybe I do,” Akira lowers on him with a smirk. Their lips brush in the slightest. His hand travels down Goro’s body, his thumb slips under the waistband, teasing. “Maybe I don’t.”

“We don’t have time for your games.”

“I don’t care.”

An angry sigh is what he gets in response. He chuckles and gets back to cupping Goro’s jaw with both hands, his thumbs trace the shape of his cheekbones and back to his jawline and tempting lips. Goro frowns, and little creases form on his forehead.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

“You’d say I’m being brainlessly sentimental.”

“Then stop it.”

“I don’t think I will, no.”

Goro glares at him. Akira’s grip tightens.

“Just…”

 _Trust me._ He chews at his lower lip.

“Let me do this. It won’t change our plan.”

“You gave your word.”

Akira kisses him with a wry smile on his lips. The tip of Goro’s nose is cold on his cheek, as are the fingertips that run down his body and drag him closer and closer by the suspenders hanging from the hem of his pants. Their chests touch, and Akira hums in the kiss. His body asks for more – he pushes it away.

He searches for air, his breath heavy. Goro’s eyes dare him to make the next move. His hands move down, along his neck, and settle on his shoulders. Akira bites down that flesh, with his front teeth, with canines, with his whole mouth, and sucks a dark mark on the spot connecting neck and shoulder. Goro gasps and jerks up his hips against him. Akira lets out a moan and moves on his Adam’s apple, and down between his collarbones – his thumbs follow that shape, too, a little sharp for its own good, and usually hidden by layers of clothes at every time of the year, even in summer. _A shame, really._

Akira slides his hands along his torso, presses with intent on each of his ribs, and brushes his nose on fresh, soft skin, with just a hint of light hair jolted up that tickles him. _Is Goro this cold even in summer?_

A sigh escapes him – he’ll never find it out, anyway. A grimace distorts his mouth, and he hides his face in Goro’s belly, a hiccup trapped in his throat. He releases it with caution, and it comes out as a long huff against Goro’s navel that causes him to squirm.

“Idiot,” he mutters through a repressed laugh.

Akira kisses him, down and down. He squeezes the thin flesh of his waist and slips back his fingers under the waistband. With a deliberate movement, he accompanies both sweatpants and underwear down Goro’s skinny, toned legs. He goes back up in a trail of kisses – Goro’s unrestrained gasps make his own trousers too tight.

He stops near his right, inner tight, on warmer skin that pulses with every breath and smells like sweat. Akira sucks a little but nasty mark on that pale canvas and drinks Goro’s whines as the coffee that knocks him awake every morning. He nibbles at that thin layer of fat and muscles, like that first, stealthy evening in the attic, with their bodies still hot from the bath. He was torturing them both, back then, messing around with Goro’s body under the unspoken agreement that the first one to plead would lose.

Akira tightens his grip against Goro’s thigh. Swallows down. Takes a deep breath. The musky smell takes over his nostrils, sparse downy hair tickles them – his head spins.

_Goro._

He turns his head to the left and lightly brushes his nose against his balls. Goro jerks up with a deep murmur. Akira raises his chin and caresses with his lips the side of his hard dick up to the tip. He places a teasing kiss, just a quick peck that leaves a hint of pungent flavor on his mouth.

“Having fun?” Goro grunts. His glare is sharp, but a flush fought its way on his cheeks. Tingly warmth spreads through Akira’s chest and down his body to his groin, a breath stuck in his lungs.

 _You’re beautiful_.

Akira bites back every syllable and lowers his head on Goro’s dick. He gives a light lick on the tip, opens his mouth, and the sharp taste of Goro’s skin slides all over his tongue. His eyes close; wet sounds and moans blend like coffee and cream, following the slow stretches of his mouth.

He goes down, his cheeks ache. Down, and the corner of his eyes prickle, his nose itches. Again and again, and a hand reaches for his curly hair – he slaps it off and blocks it down by the wrist.

“Ah – Akira,” Goro moans – the sweetest music. He wants, needs more of it. More of _him_. He swallows just another bit. And another, and another. The flesh of his lower lip protests under the tension as if it’s about to split in the middle.

Akira searches for air, his jaw pulses in a dull throb. The skin on Goro’s dick shines with his drool. Goro’s hands are clenched tight against the futon, his chest heaves in a ragged rhythm and jagged pants fill the frozen silence of the attic.

“Don’t give me the puppy eyes,” Goro scolds him in a snarky huff.

Akira bites down his swollen lip and climbs back up on Goro’s body, adorned with scattered dark stains and light teeth marks – they’re all signs that will vanish in a day or two. He frowns. Perhaps he can leave one that will last until the end if he tries hard enough.

He inhales.

_I want you to stay._

‘The night?’ Goro would respond, pretending he didn’t understand the real implication.

No.

_Don’t go._

‘I’m not going anywhere until Maruki is defeated,’ Goro would reply.

Akira grits his teeth – the ‘until’ is the problem. Maruki must know it well.

He clings to Goro’s body, buries his head in the crook of his neck, and the sweaty hairline tickles his nose. He squeezes them even tighter together, Goro’s dick pulses against his own bulge, and the other boy grinds back up in response.

“Akira,” Goro grabs his left shoulder and forces him out of his shelter. Bloody eyes hold him hostage, and every word he wanted to say gets annihilated in his throat. Goro smirks. “It seems I’ll really have to beat the shit out of you, in the end.” His other hand travels up to his right shoulder, squeezes.

And Goro pushes him off to the side.

The room spins, Akira’s right arm rubs against the cracked plastered wall, and his back hits the mattress in a dull thud and the sharp cry of the plastic crates underneath. A hand nests in his hair and tugs. Akira hisses. Goro’s smile vanishes. “Get your shit together, damn it.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Yeah,” Goro’s mouth twitch, “talk to me about life not being fair.”

“But it’s your life—”

“And?” he replies, voice scratched. His hair hangs down from his head in a short curtain. “Why is this so difficult for you? Your teammates gave up on their _parents_ , Akira. Because this reality isn’t how things should be.” He scowls. “Honestly, witnessing you like this is disheartening.”

Akira’s stomach burns, an acid taste spreads through his mouth.

“What am I supposed to do, then? Simply go on with it?”

“You gave your word,” he repeats.

Akira exhales an exasperated sigh and buries the back of his neck deeper in the pillow. The wooden ceiling pops out from behind Goro’s silhouette.

“It’s – well, I’ve already lived through this once.”

“As other people have.”

_I know!_

Blood boils in his veins. He clenches fists. Nothing other than brutal facts will come out from Goro’s mouth, as if some God specifically created the prettiest mouth, the softest lips to spill the ugliest truths.

Heavy eyelids close on their own. Cold fingers cup his face, they press down as to leave bruises. Goro’s lips are pressed thin, a flat line that bears the tension of a thread just a breath away from snapping.

“Are you giving up?”

Akira’s breath is frozen. He parts his lips – no sound comes out of his aching throat. He just blinks.

_‘Now,’ Maruki intertwined his fingers in his lap, ‘this is my question to you: when do you truly feel pain in your heart, Kurusu?’_

_He tapped fingertips on his leg, hummed. ‘When someone betrays me.’_

The sour irony of it all. The betrayal was a breeze to deal with in comparison.

Goro’s eyebrows draw closer, a little crease forms in the middle.

“Akira, are you really giving up?”

Akira swallows. The words are heavy on his tongue.

“No,” he whispers. His eyes burn. “Just… it hurts. Accept it.”

The crease on Goro’s forehead deepens. Akira’s heart takes off his chest in a free fall. _Accept it. Don’t ask questions._

Goro nods and stays quiet. His grip on Akira’s cheeks loosens. Akira breathes again.

A laugh bubbles up on his lips, but Goro covers them shut with his own. His tongue breaks in, and Akira has no choice but follow. Icy hands travel down his body, every touch of those fingers spark a shiver down his spine. Goro fumbles with the zip of his pants and yanks them down without further thought. He sneaks his hand between his legs, gives Akira’s hard dick some strokes. Akira gasps and arches his back up.

Goro bites down his lips, a sharp sting of pain in the flesh. A mischievous smirk unfolds on his lips.

And Akira surrenders, but not to Maruki.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a true 2/2 fic by the way, you can look [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24126163) (I wrote this one not long after finishing Royal)
> 
> Twitter: [saikolikes](https://twitter.com/saikolikes)


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